My Hero
by Cascade Waters
Summary: Of flying and falling and secret identities.... WARNING: Contains non-sexual spanking. Don't like, don't read.


My Hero

by firechild

Rated K+/T

Genre: pre-series

Warning: family discipline (if spanking shocks you, you may now fall over,) mention of God (see previous warning,) AU, small-child speech

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I profiting from, Supernatural or Mighty Mouse.

A/N: This is majorly AU, and yes, I'm aware that there's no indication in the show of any of the following being true. Yes, there is a direct and pointed reference to parent/child spanking in this story--you have been warned, and if this bothers you, there are tons of more talented Supernatural fanfic authors for you to find instead; please do not read this story and then jump all over me. This is my second attempt at a warmfuzzy for a listsib—this is what someone should have told her long ago.

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"I s-sowwyyy," the little voice hitched again in mid-sniffle.

"I know, baby, I know," Mary said as soothingly as she could as she snugged her hands under his arms and lifted her little boy, hugging him briefly before gingerly sitting him on her lap; she curled her arm around him to support him, letting his tiny red bottom hang from the edge of her thigh. He was going to be sore for a few minutes, but he'd been disciplined and she didn't think he needed any more distress from her. She carefully pulled up his underwear and noticed that his pants had slipped off completely and that one sock was half-off and turned heel-forward; he was a well-built child but was going through a skinny phase, and though she knew he'd grow quickly, it was both frightening and reassuring that he was still so small. She made an effort to start taking slow, deep breaths to calm herself and to encourage him to breathe as she thought about how they'd gotten to this point.

As pleased as she'd been by how protective Dean had been since the first moment he'd met his new brother, easing some of her deepest fears about the adjustment he was having to make to no longer being the center of attention, she had noticed some tension in her older child over the past week or so. Dean was a small child, and small children were bound to explore everything in their lives, including boundaries, but her usually happy son, who'd seemed fine and even longsuffering for the first three weeks of Sammy's life, had become frustrated and sullen during the past week over something that he wouldn't share with her and she didn't have the patience to question. She'd told herself that it was perfectly normal and even healthy, that it could be partially blamed on her own weariness and worries about whether or not she was doing the 'baby thing' correctly, that it was Dean's first time to go through the drama of having a newborn around just as it was hers. She'd even told herself that some of her friends had mentioned behavior problems blossoming in siblings at the arrival of a new baby, and that she'd been assured that everyone would survive, something she'd repeated to herself over and over as she'd scolded Dean in the past few days for doing everything from trying to pick up the baby to messing around with her feather duster and rags in the kitchen (and how had he managed to climb up on top of the washing machine to get to her supposedly child-proof cabinet, anyway?) Now she wondered how far off she'd been in her assessment.

John worked long and hard at the dealership service center to provide for the family and had been deeply concerned that, as a father left out of the whole gestation and nursing processes, he'd somehow mess up and not bond properly with Sammy, but he'd worked equally as hard over the last half of her pregnancy and the month after the birth to not only remind her that she was loved, but also devote some special attention to Dean to reassure the sturdy little boy that he hadn't been forgotten. John was far from perfect--and at the moment it was painfully obvious that she herself was even farther from perfect--but he'd been such a champion through this whole new situation, and right now she wished for a measure of his magic touch with Dean because she was pretty sure she'd lost her own, to have let the situation get this far and to still not understand just what this situation was.

She could feel Dean's little heart still pounding under her arm, which was understandable; her own heart hadn't stopped hammering yet.

And she'd thought that having a newborn was scary.

It was rare for her to resort to spanking Dean, and even more rare for her to bare him for it, but when she'd walked into the nursery, rubbing at a headache and ready to snap at him to stop calling for her and to not wake his brother who was finally napping, she'd been terrified at the sight of her just-turned-four-year-old balancing on the railing on the side near the foot of the crib, his small socked toes curling to keep his balance as he struck a pouncing pose. He'd faced out toward the middle of the room, and her mothering eye had noted the fact that he'd placed his own bed pillow on edge at the middle of the hard little mattress like a ping-pong net, separating the half of the crib under him from the half where his brother amazingly still slept. She hadn't been overly worried about the crib breaking--a heart-warmingly overeager John had made it from oak when they'd first learned that Dean would be coming, and Mary had insisted on keeping it in the attic as a future heirloom once Dean had outgrown it, so it had been only natural to pull it out again for the baby--and unless he went backward and sideways, he hadn't been likely to hurt Sammy, but Dean had been poised to jump, a ratty green bathtowel-cum-bathmat tucked crookedly under the collar of his Mighty Mouse sweatshirt like a cape, and she could easily imagine him snapping an arm or a leg from the force of a fall, not to mention the chance that he'd hit the rocking chair on his way down. He'd lit up when she'd appeared in the doorway, flung out his arms, and yelled, "I fwy to you!" before leaping off of his perch.

He hadn't flown far before his mother, who'd been moving before she'd realized it, had caught him, but instead of hugging him as he'd expected, she'd planted herself on the edge of the rocker and flipped him over her knees. As frightened as she'd been, she'd never lost control of herself, and her swats hadn't left anything close to bruises, but the surprise and the sting delivered with the simultaneous scolding had been more than enough to curb any desire the little boy had for flying. He'd been so startled that the brief spanking had been over before he'd had a chance to struggle, and his sobs and squeaks had all but torn out his mother's heart. Rubbing his small back, she'd heard him apologize, heard the surprise and the confusion in his voice even as he'd said he was sorry for doing something dangerous, and she'd realized that he understood now why he'd been disciplined but was still trying to sort out how it had all happened and why whatever he'd been trying to do hadn't worked. She'd almost smiled wryly, thinking that she knew the feeling well; friends were always surprised to learn that it was Mary, not John, who tended toward impulsiveness, making snap decisions to act and then thinking them through afterward, where her husband usually assessed everything carefully before choosing, and she thought that the surprise was probably mostly rooted in the fact that most of her friends had grown up in a culture that had less and less respect for men in general and ascribed childish and less intelligent traits to the male gender. Even as she'd vowed that her men would never be treated that way, just as John had vowed that Dean and now Sammy would grow up with a deep respect for women, she'd marvelled at this trait that she and her first son seemed to share--she knew that he hadn't actually gotten it from her, but she thought that it was kind of fun to feel so well-matched to him, as if they'd been made for each other in a way, and she liked to pretend to take credit (or, in this case, responsibility) for that part of him. Then again, that particular tendency had gotten her into more than one harry situation, including one from middle school that still made her squirm over the memory of her father's response, and one from college that made something in her middle turn inside-out--something that even her faith-loving mind wouldn't have believed if she hadn't seen it, something only she'd seen and would never share with her bone-deep-skeptic husband and two innocent boys.

She could feel Dean breathing better now, falling for her power of suggestion, and she rubbed his chest encouragingly with her free hand as she weighed her actions. She decided firmly that she didn't regret spanking him, realizing that she'd been going on instinct rather than on impulse and knowing that it would make a much more lasting impression on his memory and hopefully keep him from trying again, that she hadn't damaged him physically, that his psyche never seemed to have trouble recovering from a spanking from either parent, and that she was willing to take the time to soothe him and help him understand what had happened and why. She knew that those who argued against spanking were interested in protecting children from adults who wouldn't respect their own boundaries and their childrens' needs, and she appreciated that, but she also knew that she had to protect her children from more than just her own possible mistakes. She'd experienced corporal punishment at the hands of an aunt who cared only about the 'justice' of the moment and knew how scarring that could be, but the memory from middle school and quite a few other memories from her childhood with her parents, partnered with three years of experience with Dean's reactions to different forms of discipline, had taught her that she'd made the best choice with the best timing for her child and that she was giving him security.

A muffled thump pulled her from her thoughts, and she felt Dean twist in her arms as mother and son looked toward the crib, where Sammy had simply shifted in his sleep, his twitching knocking Dean's pillow down to lay flat on the other half of the mattress. Mary was amazed that after she'd struggled most of the day to get the active newborn to nap, he hadn't so much as stirred during all of the drama just eighteen inches from his bed. Things were changing so fast; before Sammy had been born, Dean had been a hard sleeper, but as of a month ago the preschooler slept as lightly as his ex-Marine father, as though waiting for... something, where Sammy, who had always fought sleep (like Dean fought battles over spinach and lima beans) and wouldn't pass out until he was good and ready, was also beginning to wake only when he was good and ready, and she wondered if he'd sleep through the Second Coming.

"Dinnat huwt him," Dean murmured into the crook of her elbow, leaning his damp cheek against the inside of her upper arm before turning fully back around and looking up at her. He had such a sweet little face, and the vibration of his voice tickled a bit.

She kept her words slow, her tone low and firm. "I know, but there was a little bit of a chance that you could have, and there was a much bigger chance that you could have hurt you, and that's not okay, either. We can't let you do things that could hurt you, Dean; we love you very much, as much as we love Sammy--do you know that?" Dean was a confident little boy and she'd only just begun to worry that he might be feeling insecure about her love because of Sammy, so something inside her went weak with relief when he nodded, his big, solemn eyes fixed on her face. "I'm very glad that you know that, sweetheart, because it's very important that you always remember that Mama and Daddy and Sammy love you and need you to be safe." Mary took a deep breath, then lifted him and turned him to face her, sitting him down gently. "Why did you do it, Dean? Why did you climb up on to the crib and try to fly to me?"

He dropped his gaze, plucking at his sweatshirt. "Mighty Mouse would," he half-pouted.

She lifted his chin. "Dean Chance Winchester, you are not Mighty Mouse. You are a little boy, my little boy. It's good to play and pretend when you're safe, but you're very smart--you knew you could be hurt. We'll talk about superheroes and why it's okay for them to do dangerous things later, but right now we're talking about you. Why did you do it?"

His eyes filled with tears again. "I jus' wanned ta be yoh hewo agin."

Mary blinked, stunned. That's what this was about? She leaned down closer to his eye level. "What? You thought--you thought that had changed?"

Dean nodded mournfully. "I not yoh hewo anymoh. You said you need somebody fwy in and wescue you; hewoes fwy. I wanna be yoh hewo agin."

Mary cocked her head. "What? Sweetheart, of course you're still my hero!" He shook his toussled head sadly. He'd obviously overheard her phone conversation with a friend a few days ago, when she'd been tired and frustrated and basically feeling that special kind of overwhelmed only new moms seemed to experience; she'd known that her feelings were normal and had used the adult conversation as a release for her pressure valve so that she could handle the rest of the day. It had never occured to her that Dean might have heard her complaining, but of course he would have taken her comments literally. It was all starting to make sense to Mary; all the things he'd gotten into over the past week must've been Dean's way of trying to help her with the things he thought she needed to do, like taking care of the baby and cleaning the house. "Yes, you're still my hero, honey, you'll always be!" He looked so heartbreakingly uncertain.

She sighed deep within herself. It was time.

She'd hoped that she'd have more time, more warning, more of an idea of what to say. She'd never imagined doing this without John. Unfortunately, mothering Dean had taught her that responses and explanations had to be as immediate as possible in order for Dean to connect discipline and praise to his choices. Mary braced herself, choosing her words very carefully. "Dean, do you know why I call you my hero?" He shook his head again. Extremely wary of letting impulse guide her, Mary sifted her words once more. "You know how Superman was born with one mama and daddy, and then when he came here, he had another mama and daddy?" A nod. "Well, it's not what makes you my hero, but you're just a little bit like Superman. See, you didn't come from my tummy, like Sammy; you came from another lady's tummy." Dean looked so alarmed that she broke off, letting him use his words.

"B-but why? Wha' happen? Din' she wan' me? Was I bad?"

It was Mary's turn to be alarmed; she reminded herself that she had to keep control of this situation. "Dean Chance, you are not bad. You are a very good little boy who sometimes makes the wrong choice. And the other lady loved you very much; you were so important to her that she made sure that you would have a family who could take care of you. Lots of people took care of you when you were new, and when you were almost a year old, your daddy and I got to meet you, and we decided to take you home to be our little boy."

Dean glanced at Sammy again. "God din' send me to you." He sounded hurt and disappointed.

Mary gently turned Dean's head to face her again, locking eyes with him. "He did. God sent you to Daddy and me; He just did it in a different way. We love Sammy and we're very glad to have him--God chose him for us. You, we got to choose. God wasn't ready for us to have a baby from my tummy yet because He wanted us to meet you; we met many babies for people to take home and love, but He knew that you were the one we would need, and He made sure that we met you."

"So... I Supaman?"

"Well, no, you're still a little boy, but you are adopted, like Superman." She loved the way his forehead wrinkled as he tried to puzzle over what she was saying. "When we met you, you were living with lots of other little kids, and you were a happy, sweet baby who never sat still. You were so curious, so active--you were everywhere, trying to see everything and to talk to us even though you didn't know how." Mary took a breath, a little surprised at the pain the memories still brought. "Then, one day, we went to see you and you weren't there. The man who was helping us adopt you told us that you were very sick, so sick that he was scared, and so were we. He said you were sleeping and might not wake up, and that if you did, you might not get all the way well, and it would be okay if we wanted to pick another baby." Before his panic at the thought of not going home with her could touch off her own remembered panic at the sight of the sick infant, she hunched even closer to him, taking his hands in hers. "But we didn't want to pick another baby—we wanted you, and nothing could change that! So we sat with you and prayed for you, and since they called you Dean, we named you Dean Chance Winchester and kept saying your name over and over again so that you would know to come back to us, and even though you were a very, very sick little boy, you just kept fighting! And early one morning they called us to come to you because you were awake and you were getting better and you were in a different bed, and when we came in and asked for you by name, you heard us and you turned your head. You knew your name! You knew us! I knew that there were angels watching over you then, just like there are now. They prayed for you, too, and you fought very hard and got all well again so that you could come home with us, and that's why you're my hero and you always will be."

Her eyes were so clear and her tone was so certain that his fears started to break down before he could remember the words for most of them.

Most of them.

He thought for a moment and then looked up at her carefully, with one eye. "I not yohs?"

"You are! You most certain are mine. Ours. Daddy's and mine. And Sammy's, too, now. Just like I'm yours, I'm your forever mama, and Daddy's your forever daddy, and Sammy's your baby brother, and nothing can make that different, not ever. Listen to me, Dean Chance Winchester—are you listening?" John had taught him to listen with his whole body, and Dean did just that as he nodded. "Very good! I want you to remember this always: you are mine. You are ours. We love you. You belong here. You are as much mine as your brother is." She felt him begin to relax, and she turned him and tucked him into the circle of her arm again. "I prayed for you, I prayed that we would meet you and that you would get well and come home to stay with us, and I prayed that angels would always watch over you just like God promised, and it's all true! That's why I always tell you that there are angels watching over you when you go to sleep at night."

"Weawy?"

"Yes, really."

"Oh." He nuzzled the side of his face against her arm, and she could feel him scrunch up his face. "I tho' it was so I not get twubbuh pway sohjuh afta bed."

Mary had to laugh. Oh, how she loved this boy! "Yes, well, you know you're not allowed to play soldier after bedtime, but that's not the angels' job—that's what Daddy's for." She heard the little whimper. "Don't worry, though, I won't tell him—this time." He sighed, his warm breath against her arm carrying away the rest of his tension, and she just couldn't stand it anymore. She lifted her little hero and turned him, settling him on her shoulder and feeling him reflexively drape himself over her. He only shifted a couple of times, and she could feel the weariness in his tiny body, as well as the trust, when he slipped his arms around her neck and snuggled his face down into the soft part of the front of her shoulder.

"I ahways potect him."

She was a little startled to hear the soft declaration, but then she smiled. "I know, baby—I've seen how you take care of your brother, and I'm very proud of you. Now why don't you just lay here and let Mama take care of you for a bit, hmm?"

She sat back in the rocker, kissing the side of his head and rocking him gently, savoring the feel of his back moving in time with his breath and the smell of laundry detergent and little boy. Other than the ticking of the wall clock and the occasional burble from the sleeping Sammy, the house was quiet.

She was still rocking her preschooler when the air shifted and a large figure in a long, dark coat filled the nursery doorway; Mary looked up and her heart skipped a beat as she instinctively covered Dean's head with her hand.

It hadn't been that long since she'd seen him, couldn't have been that long, surely, but even from four feet away, she felt his hot breath in her bones. She'd forgotten how big he was, what a presence he had, how his eyes could bore right through her as though she was made of butter.

And for all the strength in her at the sight of him, she might have been.

"Well, well, well," he said in a gravelly voice full of dark promise, "long time, no see."

Her heart thundered. Her mouth went dry. She hadn't felt this way since… She tried to summon words, to say something that would give her some measure of control before her world came apart blindingly at the seams.

"That coat reeks." There. She'd managed to speak, to bring reality back into focus. He cheapened her moment, though, when he simply chuckled.

"No, seriously, the thing's positively ancient, and it smells like motor oil gone to the dark side. In fact, I'm pretty sure I threw it out just before Sammy was born—the stench kept making me sick." She shot him a pointed look.

"It's a perfectly good coat!" He looked wounded, and for a moment she wondered whether Dean had learned it from him or the other way around. "Besides, I think I look dashing in it."

Mary rolled her eyes, not wanting to let on just how the sight of him had shot heat through her. "The only thing that gets you dashing is pot roast." She took his answering grin as a score for her, but she regretted not checking her volume when the little boy on her shoulder moaned and shifted. She shushed him and rubbed his back, seeing John cock his head in a silent inquiry.

"We, uh, had some excitement today."

His eyebrows rose. "What kind of excitement?"

She sighed. "Oh, the kind where the four-year-old decides to prove that he's still needed by jumping off of the crib and flying."

Consternation settled on John's oil-smudged features. "I see." He looked toward the crib, no doubt noticing both the stirring infant and the pillow on the mattress, then glanced around the room, his gaze sweeping over the small lump of denim on the floor. He looked up at her again. "I take it you…"

Mary nodded. "I took care of it—I really don't think we'll be having the flying problem again."

John nodded and came to kneel in front of her, laying a hand on Dean's back. "You alright?"

Mary smiled; she'd forgotten how much she could miss him. He'd been here every night, as supportive as he knew how to be, but she was just getting to a point where she could appreciate that again after the craziness of the past several weeks, and she had a feeling that the rush of heat at his appearance heralded further reminders that she was a healthy, sane woman and not the shabby mom-wannabe that she'd felt like lately. She nodded. "I'm fine." She heard the first hiccupping whimpers behind her.

John nodded once, satisfied. "I'll get Sammy—you just take a load off."

He'd gotten halfway to his feet when she caught his hand. "I told him." Surprise filled John's eyes. "I wanted to wait for you, but I didn't think I could afford to. John, he was worried that he wasn't making us need him anymore. He wanted to fly so that he could still be my hero."

His brow furrowed and he leaned down to peer at Dean with concern. "I think you did the right thing, hon. How'd he take it?"

"Not bad. He was a little scared about it at first, but I told him that he's ours. I think as long as he's more worried about looking after Sammy than taking care of me, we'll be okay." As if on cue, the newborn decided to express himself just then. John pushed himself up and went to the playpen, scooping up the baby in his big, calloused hands and cooing to him as he ferried him over to the changing table and made short work of what he called "the tailpipe situation." Mary sat back and closed her eyes, rocking Dean and listening as the big, tough ex-Marine cooed softly through a cloud of baby powder. She wasn't aware of dozing off, or of the irony of having done so only after John had arrived to fill the nursery with Eau de Valvoline, until she opened her eyes and realized that two of the three Winchester men were gone. She had a moment of panic before she remembered the baby monitor on the table beside her; she picked it up and spoke into it. "John, are you there?"

After a few seconds in which she could hear rustling and a bit of grumbling, his voice came back to her. "Roger that—just had to make a stop."

A moment later, he came striding back into the nursery, sans overcoat, with Sammy straddling the crook of his elbow and laying vertically up his bicep; the baby was getting restless, head-butting the sleeve of his father's ratty old beige sweater and making the first sounds of hunger. "See? All present and accounted for—the ruler and the drooler, at your service."

She smirked up at him. "Riiiiiight. Well, if His Highness wouldn't mind, how about a hand up? This chair is swallowing me, and before I can feed you and Sleeping Beauty here, I'm going to have to feed the Toothless Wonder."

John put up a hand to still her, then disappeared down the hallway. When he came back without the baby, she guessed that he'd lain Sammy in the cradle in the living room next to her favorite spot. He leaned down, reaching out. "I'll take Dean—you go take a minute for yourself, and then worry about Sammy."

He took the four-year-old, easily transferring the boy to his shoulder, where Dean automatically snuggled into his sweet spot—the hollow under John's chin where neck and shoulder met chest—and then helping her up, reeling her in for a kiss. If she'd thought the earlier heat had been a fluke, she'd been mistaken, she realized as she felt a tiny explosion that started at her lips and worked its way down. She stretched and then turned off the nursery light, glancing back into its shadows. She had so many heroes in her life—the visions from her past could never be as real as this.


End file.
